


the secret stash

by ShannonXL



Series: Shit My Sherlock Does [8]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Epistolary, Erotica, F/F, Fem!Sherlock, Lesbian Irene, Love Letters, girl!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2240577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonXL/pseuds/ShannonXL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of letters between Irene and Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. billet-doux

The first one is written on a lavender index card, and the neat scrawl requires no dedication.

_You lied._

* * *

The response comes months later, slipped underneath door #307 in a hotel in Madrid. She didn't think anyone had recognized her, but clearly, she was mistaken. She leaves immediately, and doesn't read it until she's on a train going somewhere else, somewhere new. When she reads the word, she laughs. It really wasn't worth all the trouble.

 _Repeatedly_. 

* * *

Irene's riposte takes months to arrive.

 _Why_.

Sherlock reads it, analyzing the curve of the letter 'h', searching for something more. Of course, there is nothing. She tastes the paper, detecting latex (courtesy of the overeager post-anthrax American postal service), Cuban tobacco (courtesy of the teenager hired to carry the letter across the border), and bergamot (courtesy of an obscure Indian perfumery). 

She composes her reply as she walks to a crime scene (five blocks east, two north). It takes three days to find Irene, two hours to figure out how to send her reply, and another week to find the courage to do it.

* * *

 

_I didn't know I would fall in love with you, for one._

_I used you. I needed you._

_I need you differently, now._

Irene considers all the possibilities before she comes to the conclusion that what she is reading is the truth. More significantly, she is being told what she wants to hear. 

* * *

_Are you sorry?_

Sherlock is in a holding cell when she receives the note. It's written on hotel stationary, from a Mariott Inn somewhere in Alabama, a place Sherlock would have said with absolute surety was not somewhere Irene had ever been, were it not for the simple fact that she is Irene, and lives to stretch the boundaries of Sherlock Holmes' expectations. It's left by mistake. Except Sherlock knows it's not really a mistake. It was placed in that holding cell, wedges into the corner between the bench and the wall. No one else would be possessed of the curiosity and the patience to remove it.

She wonders how Irene knew she would end up here. 

* * *

Irene doesn't have time to read the next letter right away. She's somewhere far from anything she knows, and it's still not far enough. It would be a miracle that Sherlock was able to find her, except she became accustomed to Sherlock's particular brand of genius long ago, and it no longer holds the prestige of the miraculous for her.

_I should be sorry. But I'm not. No matter the circumstances, I could never be sorry for anything that brought me to you. I would undo nothing. I love you, fiercely. I change the past would alter us completely, and I would not risk our imperfect union for anything, not even the promise of paradise._

* * *

 

This time, the stationary is black, the words scratched onto the dense vellum with a metallic white pencil. 

_And the child?_

* * *

When Sherlock responds, she sends a photo, and the words are written with black marker. Irene notes how her hand must have trembled. She was trained to look for things like that.

_With my brother._

She sighs. She is somewhere else now. Far from London. Across the world from New York. She's survived by her wits and her courage. Her skills make her valuable and vulnerable. She can't stay long, and she doesn't have the luxury of permanent possessions. She acquires a new wardrobe every place she lands. She tries to remember the photo, knowing this, as with all the others, must be sent back. 

A little girl. She has her eyes.

* * *

_That's not what I'm asking._

* * *

_I know._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. a distinct lack of continuity

_Tell me then. If you think yourself besotted with me. What do you think you know about me-_

* * *

Sherlock notes the open-ended punctuation, but doesn't know what to make of it. She leans back in her chair, fingers stroking the puce velvet where it's turned bitter green and gray, worn down by too many contemplative moments and clumsy migrations. In her other hand is a cigarette that's burned to the filter. She spits to put the fire out. Her fingers are singed, and she's careless, disinterested. Her entire being is too captivated by the memory of a woman she's only seen a handful of times.

Where is she? 

~~_I love you because-_ ~~

She tears it up before she can be bothered to finish the sentence. Too trite. Too untrue. There is no  _because_. There only  _is_.  _It_ is a chasm, a sinking ship, an open vessel, a place inside the self reserved for what the self is not. Other. Stranger.

"i love you because..."

She smiles, catches a glimpse of herself in the dressing room mirror. 

She will send a photo. 

* * *

Irene is in a truck, surrounded by boxes of ammunition. Is she guarding it? Stealing it? Hoarding it? For the moment, she has forgotten. She reads.

_A great deal, actually._

_Of course, I stole your file. Well, borrowed. I do intend to return it. Eventually. With a few significant addendums._

_But I suspect you mean the other things. Those not suited for the file. Not fit to be locked away in the dusty, dented cabinet of some forgotten bureaucrat._

_Most if it, you won't like to admit._

_You're American. Cajun, to be precise. You were recruited as a sleeper, trained from birth, but it was nowhere near the exotic fantasies imagined by the ham-fisted peddlers of spy thrillers and action films. You've lied about your birthplace many times, hidden the way your tongue tastes the letter 'a', because you've had to._

_You enjoy the cuisine, and speak the language, but you were uprooted long ago._

_You have patience, a great bounty of it. I expect in part because you've lived a life of waiting. When will the next mission begin? When will my mark arrive? When will my handler respond? Impatience comes with making choices, and those have rarely been yours to make._

_I'm honored that you've chosen me._

_You've a wicked sense of humor. And your dimples are delightful._

She smiles.

_Your turn._

* * *

 

_Sherlock Holmes, you are a disaster. You smell like chemicals every time we meet. Sulphur and nitrous oxide and, oddly enough, petrichor._

_Here is what I know about you:_

_I don't think you call it an addiction, and perhaps it isn't, not yet, but your use of the drug cocaine is like a relationship you're building with a strange stray dog you found in a toxic waste dump that no one has the heart to tell you is a tumor-ridden rat. He's plotting to kill you Sherlock, whether you're ready or not._

_But maybe I'm wrong. I hope, for your sake, and mine._

_I have fantastic dimples._

_Your turn._

Sherlock is surrounded by people, and thoroughly, completely alone.

* * *

 

Irene's next letter takes weeks to arrive, and at first she's afraid the detective is angry. Then she recalls the distances. She's been twice to Peru and flown around the world in barely any time at all. Of course it took Sherlock more time to find her. The letter is dated, inside and out. The date on the outside is the day Sherlock chose to send it. The date on the inside is the day Irene's letter was delivered.

_I have fantastic relationships with a number of rats, but I'll keep it in mind._

* * *

 

_Lab rats do not count Sherlock. I know you have to kill them after your experiments are over. Your turn._

* * *

Irene is right about the rats. Sherlock leans over their tank as she considers the words she needs to use. The rats are becoming lethargic. Soon, she will indeed have to kill the rats. 

_All right._

_You're stronger than you look. You have the kind of strength that bends but never breaks, that enduring smoke after a fire, the last survivor of a shipwreck._

_You're soft, too. Sure of yourself. You could make yourself fit in any part of the world. You have a chameleon heart._

_And the sex was fantastic. Your turn._

* * *

Irene rarely laughs.

It's one of her least favorite qualities about herself. She giggles, and she can grin like a cheshire cat from ear to ear, and she can perform the bubbly, vapid laugh that gives the impression of a vacant heiress or a gloomy gold digger, or both. She can play at laughter, but she is rarely moved to true humor.

Sherlock never fails to move her.

_It takes two to tango, darling. I won't let it go to my head._

_Your ego should infuriate me. You're flamboyant with your talents. And impulsive in everything you do. You have a head for numbers, but absolutely no common sense. You tear people apart like magazines, quickly absorbing and discarding their sensibilities without regret. No surprise, I suppose, that you've chosen to love me._

_I absolutely will not be discarded._

* * *

_No_ , Sherlock muses on paper.  _Never._

 

 

 

 


	3. spectacular diversion

_What would you do, if you were here with me?_

* * *

Sherlock presses her lips against the paper, composing her response. This one smells like volcanic ash, and she thinks that maybe if she tastes it at just the right angle... no, impossible to tell. She can make an educated guess, of course, but having never tasted the various volcanic eruptions of the world, there's just no way to be sure.

_I would kiss your neck and tease a flush from your warm skin. I would stroke your hip, your thighs. I would press my lips against your collarbone,_

And she allows herself to remember, for an instant, the flavor of that especial collarbone, fingers tracing her quadriceps. 

... _scrape my teeth behind your ears, my hot breath making your tremble. I would rejoice in the taste of you. I would hum into your skin. I would flick you with my fingers, stroking gently, then swiftly, then with my tongue. I would relish the sound of your heart beating, I would listen to the spaces in between your breaths, like watching lightning and waiting for thunder, counting the miles away it strikes. I would make love to your lips, and do penance for every single day we are apart._

A casual onlooker would not notice the way she grips the curtain beside the duvet, wrinkled cotton crumbling beneath her palm.

_I would slide down your blessed body and savor the taste of you. I would hazard a guess regarding your travels based on your diet, the assumptions about your diet based on your flavor. Sweetness, pineapple? No- soda. Too much time in the Americas. Perhaps I would guess wrongly, which would require further testing, I think..._

_I would know you. I would stroke you with my fingers _and kiss every inch of you and caress you with my teeth_ and hum vibrations through your legs . I would stay there forever if you let me. _

* * *

Irene reads the letter alone. She's amused at how ruffled Sherlock allowed herself to become, and pleased by the thought of some stranger handling the letter, carrying it to her on food, completely oblivious to the heady treasure inside. 

_Maybe I would._

_Maybe I would tie you up and keep you there, all to myself._

* * *

Sherlock is not only familiar with that spectacular diversion, she can imagine the rope. Hemp. A personal preference. Or perhaps silk. Something with a nice weave. Red, usually. And the knot- ah! Irene prefers simplicity.

_God help me Irene, I would let you._

She almost crumbles it up. 

_No. I would deliver the rope to you myself._

She sends it immediately.

* * *

_Prove it then. I know you know where to find me._

She kisses the note at the bottom. Her lips are bare, but Sherlock will know. 

 

 


	4. shriverson

Sherlock arrives, as she frequently does, without announcement. John never hears her footsteps coming up the stairs. She never makes quite enough sound. Not even in heels.

It's strange, because she is not, by the strictest definition, a quiet person. She's often belligerent. And cruel. She claps when she has an idea, and frowns vocally when she's being ignored. Gunshots follow her like kisses blown from lovers. And the torrential mess she leaves in her wake is a cacophony of noises and mistakes. But every time she walks up the stairs, John never hears her, not until the key is twisting in the lock. That is, if she's deigned to use a key. She enjoys testing the defenses of the building. She slips in through the fire escape, leaps across the street from the scaffolding, and revels in picking every new lock the superintendent installs.

She wipes her feet on the doormat, and John knows she knows.

"I knew."

He knows because she says it.

"What." He still asks, because more information is not always forthcoming. She rolls her eyes and explains.

"I knew you were going to confess. And apologize. Don't worry. I knew."

The follow-up question escapes before he can reel it in. "How?"

"How did I know you discovered the dusty, untouched case of rather explicit letters?" Her lips quirk. "The fingerprints did give it away."

"And?"

She shrugs, not as angry as he would have expected. Not angry at all, it would seem.

"And."

John groans. "There's always an 'and'. Get to it."

"And you blushed for days."

And there's a smile! John grunts. "Fine. I'm still sorry though."

Sherlock sits down across from him, resting her elbows on her knees, examining him like he's a corpse. He supposes he must be, to her. A rather animate corpse, one that sometimes makes tea in the microwave just to give her something to complain about. A dead thing that does the crossword every morning, and cleans the table, and insists that she eat dinner or stop smoking inside, just  _one_ of those things, one concession to consideration. 

She sits so lightly she barely makes a dent in the off-mauve brocatelle. 

"Are you sorry for reading the letters or for publishing them on your blog? Or for not telling me before I figured it out?" She twists her head to the left, never taking her eyes off him. She might be examining the creases on his forehead, or the texture of his undershirt. He never knows, with Sherlock Holmes. "Or are you sorry that I caught you?"

"So you _are_ mad."

"I just want you to be clear."

"Both, then. All of it." He rubs the crease of his jeans between his thumb and forefinger. "But you let me. Why did you let me."

"I thought they might make me seem human."

* * *

 

It was a crime scene, and it was weeks ago.

"You could have been kinder."

Sherlock had turned on him, spun, hair askew, falling in aloof curls across her forehead. It was not quite raining, and it was not yet cold. 

" _Kinder_." She nearly spat. "To the idiot who mislabeled evidence and almost lose the case, or to the idiot girlfriend trying to defend him?"

John shrugged, but didn't back away.

"The entire thing was emasculating."

"If the man's masculinity is so fragile it can't withstand  _me_ , perhaps police work is not for him." She snarled. "Pathetic, useless, lazy-"

"I'm just saying-"

She flapped her hand in the air. "Or maybe masculinity itself is an outdated vestige of a social construct not worth saving-"

John had not kept up with her. He had stopped at the light, and waited, not patiently, for her to realize that he wasn't with her. He would have been waiting for a very long time, had he not spoken up.

"Do. You. _Ever_. Stop."

She did. She stopped moving. She let car horns blare, until the drivers learned to swerve around her, cursing and beeping. She turned her head. And the stillness of her, in a moving, vibrant world, was almost blinding in its sincerity.

"No, John. I never stop. This is how I am. Always."

John grimaced, and the blinding sincerity of the vibrant moment was entirely lost on him at the time.

"You're like a robot, programmed to piss people off. You're a machine. You just keep going and going, wailing on and on, about the ways the world keeps failing to live up to your ridiculous expectations. You're like the goddamn energizer bunny of pissing off policemen."

She had offered to go back with him, and he, to his discredit, had stormed off.

* * *

 

He recalls the argument as Sherlock sits across from him. He notices that she smells, underneath the cigarettes and ammonia, like a rare and unfamiliar perfume. One not her own.

She remembers the argument as well. Perfect memory. Like a machine.

Like a machine.

"I shouldn't have said all that. I'm sorry."

She doesn't nod. She doesn't have to.

"I know."

She always knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More at http://shitmysherlockdoes.tumblr.com/


End file.
